


The Weight of the World Upon Your Shoulders

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [3]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: BAMF Spike, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Lou, Hurt Spike, Injury, Lou Whump, Lou and Spike are BFFs, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Injuries, OT4, Other, Serious Injuries, Spike Carries Lou, Spike Whump, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“…I don’t think I can walk,” Lou hissed, trying to stand up but Spike pushed him back down and ripped off the arm of his shirt, tying it around the wound and apologizing profusely at Lou’s pained noises.<br/>“Just let me think, okay, Lou?” Spike patted the bloody vest, closing his eyes and concentrating at the feeling of oxygen permeating his cells, then went to run a hand through his hair and swore when his fingers brushed parts of his broken comm unit from his thick mop. Lou watched, and shook his head; his own unit a few feet away and far from in working order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of the World Upon Your Shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, I will go down with this ship. I hope you enjoy, because this is far from the best thing I've written but I still think it turned out okay. I would love feedback, and thank you so much for everyone who has left kudos and comments. I've got a couple other stories I'm contemplating writing (I've got at least three solid ideas I'm toying around with) so perhaps you will see that up eventually (hopefully soon--I'm desperate for this ship and I've resorted to reading my own stories). Have a wonderful day (night, whatever).
> 
> A/N: I own nothing, nor do I get any profits from my writing. This applies to all Flashpoint stories I have written or will write.

Squinting up at the sun, which was barely visible but still far too bright through the cracks above him, Spike pulled in a breath and let it go with only a wince. Sore, but he’d live. The first bullet had caught his vest, had pushed all the air that was hiding behind his ribs, and no doubt he’d have a bruise there. However, the second shot had cleanly sliced through his forearm and it was lazily bleeding; his black sleeve soaking it up.

Throwing his body upwards, Spike sat straight with a gasp of panic. Shit, Lou had gotten hit. For a few seconds—precious, fatal seconds—his mind narrowed to animalistic dread. Then the bomb tech spotted his friend a few feet away and scrambled fully upright, rushing to the fallen officer’s side and checking for a pulse.

“Lou,” Spike spoke harshly, lightly slapping the man’s face as he counted his pulse, “Lou, buddy, now’s not the time to take a nap. Lou. Lou!”

Dark eyes were slowly revealed as Lou let out a groan and blinked himself aware; one hand clawing at the ground and the other going to his leg.

“…shot,” He coughed, the dust around them swirling as the sun continued to beat down through the abandon warehouse’s decrepit roof. Blood was dripping from Lou’s leg, and his vest was smeared dull red from Spike’s arm.

“Yeah, I know buddy,” The more experienced bomb tech smiled weakly, trying to reassure Lou, “You’ll be fine, no worries.”

“…I don’t think I can walk,” Lou hissed, trying stand up but Spike pushed him back down and ripped off the arm of his shirt, tying it around the wound and apologizing profusely at Lou’s pained noises.

“Just let me think, okay Lou?” Spike patted the bloody vest, closing his eyes and concentrating at the feeling of oxygen permeating his cells, then went to run a hand through his hair and swore when his fingers brushed parts of his broken comm unit from his thick mop. Lou watched, and shook his head; his own unit a few feet away and far from in working order.

“Here,” The bomb tech spoke up quickly, crouching down a bit, and held out an arm, “c’mon, it’ll be like in practice.”

Lou raised an eyebrow, looking down at himself, and Spike shook his head with an over-cheery smile and flexed his hand to grab back the man’s attention.

“I can carry you, I know I’m not Ed or anything,” Lou rolled his eyes, “but c’mon trust me, I won’t drop you.”

“You’re hurt too,” Lou pointed out, realization pooling in his eyes like the blood in the dirt, but Spike shook his head firmly and didn’t even look at his arm; at the blood dripping down his hand, spilling from his fingers as it rained on the Earth.

“I’m fine; it’s just a scratch, now come on.”

Lou huffed, biting his lip but his dark eyes were pained and tired. So he took Spike’s hand, and the smaller man maneuvered them around so he could haul Lou up and onto his shoulders. With a grunt, Spike settled his best friend’s body onto his shoulders and held onto his uninjured thigh and looped an arm around Lou’s elbow.

“That’s not a scratch, Spike,” Lou said quietly from his place on the bomb tech’s shoulders, ready to berate his friend further but Spike silenced him quickly and hiked on through the muddy trails leading away from the building.

“Quiet, Lou,” Spike panted, “I’ve told you before, Romans and woods don’t mix.”

“I don’t think this counts as ‘woods’.” Lou muttered under his breath, but Spike walked carefully along and didn’t seem to notice. “You know your _boyfriends_ ,” Lou stressed the word, a goofy smile on his tight-stretched lips, “are going to be pissed. Do you know how many times Sam has glared me down and told me to make sure you don’t get hurt? And we go off and you get shot… they’re going to kill me, Spike!”

The bomb tech had an exhausted smile plastered on his sweaty face, dark eyes full of determination, “Yeah,” hot breath escaped his throat and it burned as the heat seared his lungs, “They’re like that.” There was no comment on how odd their relationship was, no judgment, just the calm acceptance of two friends who, in actuality, were more like brothers.

“Are you going to protect me from them?” Lou asked, his words fractured as his wound was jarred and Spike apologized with guilt thick in his voice.

“Of course,” Spike said with a grin, “what friend would I be if I let three overprotective men kill you for me getting shot? Plus, the subject got away, so I’m sure they’re more worried about that. Fled south, towards them, I think.”

Lou grumbled under his breath, something about “stupid” and “naive” and Spike was sure his name was in there somewhere.

“Your arm is still bleeding,” Lou pointed out with concern painted thickly on his features even though Spike kept his gaze forward and tasked himself with making sure he got Lou out of there as safely and quickly as possible even though his shoulders howled in protest.

“I’ll be fine,” Spike reiterated, but Lou fidgeted reflexively with worry until he heard a sound of discomfort from Spike.

“Sorry.” Lou murmured as he tried to keep his limbs close to his rescuer, so they wouldn’t swing into trees.

“You know,” the bomb tech laughed and then sucked back in air as his legs shook, “I don’t remember the run here being so long.”

“Well,” the other man said flatly, “we did run here, like actually run. And you weren’t carrying a grown man.”

“Still,” Spike cocked his head to the side, but perked up and switched verbal tracks as the main road revealed itself ahead, the thick foliage parting like the doors to Eden being thrown open in the blooming spring air.

“Yes!”

“Now to go get murdered by your lovers,” Lou groaned with a shiver, gripping onto Spike’s vest as pain raced up his leg. “I’m going to owe you for this, aren’t I?”

“Hey,” Spike laughed, worry sliding off his shoulders like the blood from his palm, the agony still bright and zipping around his nerves like a shark in a feeding frenzy. “What kind of friend do you think I am?”

“You prefer a robot over me,” Lou deadpanned, and Spike tried to hide his surprise as his legs nearly buckled under him but Lou stilled and vocalized his concern quiet loudly.

“Well,” Spike breathed out, hiding his exhaustion as well as a bomb suit mask covering his face, “Babycakes is my best girl, and you can never beat her, buddy.”

“Uniforms,” Lou pointed out, and Spike blinked the sweat out of his eyes as he took in the scene. He’d stopped walking, knees locked and head as cloudy as a dim Canadian afternoon. Three officers were ahead, two cruisers parked side by side and the two women and a man were leaning over the hood and pointing out something on—what Spike assumed was—a map.

“Hey,” Spike called out, voice suddenly hoarse as he swayed—top-heavy with Lou’s body. He started to set the man down, Lou leaning greatly on him, and rubbed his thigh before squinting in pain as blood flowed faster down his arm.

The two women were racing towards him, the man barking something into his radio, and Spike nearly lost his balance as he smiled and huffed out a polite “ma’am”.

“We’ve been looking for you for nearly half an hour!” one woman—a short, dark haired lady with soft, haunted facial features—snapped, and Spike turned to Lou with a weak grin.

“Told you it was a lot longer coming back.”

The other woman, blonde hair tied tight behind her head and gray-blue eyes sharp as knives, took Lou’s weight from him and helped him limp towards the cruiser as she spat into her radio.

“This is Officer Gurklee,” The woman huffed with authority as Lou nearly collapsed against her side, “requesting an ambulance. Officers Scarlatti and Young are with me, repeat the missing SRU officers have been found. Call off the hounds.”

_Hounds_? Spike mouthed with confusion, but shook his head and stumbled after Lou as the other policewoman tried to grab at his injured arm and check for other injuries.

The distance between where he’d been standing and the cars became a journey that rivaled that of the Exodus. Lou was resting on the passenger seat of the cruiser, hands fisted in his pants legs as the policewoman pressed gauze against the wound and continued to speak into the radio. The dark haired woman, who’d walked by his side the entire time—ready to grab him if he fell—didn’t try to move him when he collapsed against the wheel well facing Lou. She jumped into the driver’s side of one of the cruisers, grabbed a handful of gauze, and tried to press it to his wound like her colleague but Spike took it from her with a thankful smile and tended to his own wound.

With a hiss, the bomb tech let the fabric soak up his blood as he caught Lou’s eyes and a thousand words flew between them without their lips needing to move. Time clicked on as the sun blazed the sky and burned the ground, insects fluttering in the breeze and more gauze being added to wounds.

With a shrill cry, the ambulance turned onto the street and rolled towards them with a sense of urgency that both calmed any of Spike’s fears and made him roll his eyes. The paramedics jumped out, bags in one hand, and jogged towards them—eyes on the officers and assessing the situation with skill that showed they weren’t new to this.

Spike spoke up, holding his arm close, and told them to take care of Lou first and when they roamed over the injuries and took stock they seemed to agree and carried the SRU officer towards the ambulance. Officer Gurklee stood by her comrades, hands on her hips, and held away the radio as she let out an exhausted breath of exasperation.

“They’ll be here in a second,” She spoke in Spike’s direction, going back to the map and sharply pointing out something with a pondering shift of her weight.

One of the paramedics loped towards him, a practiced smile on his face, and held out his hand expectantly. Obediently, Spike offered his aching arm and flopped against the car as the adrenaline evaporated out his pores and the pain raced in to fill its place.

With a calculating gaze, the man carefully poked and turned—hands gentle but firm.

“You’ll need stitches,” the man said apologetically, “but the bullet didn’t hit anything vital, and it exited so we don’t have to go digging. You got lucky.”

“Yeah,” Spike said distractedly, craning his neck to get a better view of the ambulance, and the paramedic placed a hand on his knee and caught his gaze.

“Your friend will be fine, in pain for a bit but he’s not bleeding bad and Tom’s just getting him comfortable on the gurney.” The man stood, holding out his hand, and nodded towards the bright red vehicle, “Let’s get going.”

Spike walked by the man’s side, taking the offered gauze and it firmly over the red mess already covering his arm. Another alarm filled the air in the absence of the ambulance, and Spike looked up expectantly as stilled his assent into the ambulance.

Sirens shook birds from the trees as a SRU van raced down the dirt road, the windows tinted so dark that, even if Spike squinted and tried to focus his fuzzy gaze, the bomb tech couldn’t tell who was in the vehicle. Suddenly, the world started to grey and he wanted to tip onto the floor, and the paramedics perked up in unease.

“We’ve got to go,” the paramedic pipped up, the other one jumping out and slamming the doors shut before heading for the driver’s seat. There were angry voices on the other side of the metal, the familiar rough tones of Ed and Sam, but the ambulance sirens silenced all as they whirled to life.

The wheels of the heavy-set ambulance grabbed onto the gravel and dirt before gaining traction and heading towards the paved roads. Lou was sitting, upright, on the gurney with fluids hooked up to him and a heavy bandage around his leg and Spike grabbed onto his hand.

“You need fluids,” The paramedic balanced on the moving platform as he drew out a bag and an I.V. from a cabinet, and Spike let him work as he spoke to Lou.

“See, this is why Babycakes is better than you. She doesn’t need to be escorted in an ambulance,” he joked, and Lou rolled his eyes. The rest of the ride was silent, pain meds making their tongues heavy and voices dull.

Slowly, the vehicle bowled to a stop and the doors clicked open as Lou was rolled out and into the automatic doors. The paramedic walked along side Spike, holding the I.V. bag, and spoke softly to one of the nurses as she joined him.

“Just some stitches for this one,” He said with a jut of his chin, “I put in an I.V., so just let him rest and finish this bag.”

She nodded, and guided the bomb tech to a bed with gentle hands.

“My friend—Lou—I came in with him…” Spike rambled, and the nurse nodded and filled the silence of his choppy sentence.

“I just need to grab the supplies for your stitches, and I will ask about him while I’m over there, okay?”

Spike nodded, leaning back against the bed, and tried to relax but heavy boots stormed into the emergency room as Greg’s voice filled the entire space.

“I’m looking for two of my officers,” he spoke quickly; “they just came in. Scarlatti and Young.”

A woman’s light voice, a few decibels lower, explained that they had literally just came in and that Mr. Scarlatti was just over here, and would he mind following her. The footsteps rushed his way.

The curtain was pulled back by the young nurse, and Greg carefully grabbed Spike into a hug and his lips rested softly against the clammy skin of the bomb tech’s neck.

“I’m okay, boss,” Spike grabbed Greg’s shoulder with his uninjured arm, squeezing reassuringly, and the nurse—back at the desk—audibly sighed as two more sets of footsteps raced in.

They must have caught sight of Greg, because Sam and Ed quickly walked over and surrounded the bed without any direction from the nurse.

“Lou’s okay,” Spike spoke up, “He was shot in the leg, but they said he’ll be okay.”

Greg nodded, but Sam and Ed were too wrapped up in their own world to fully accept the statement.

“Do you know how worried we were?” Sam hissed under his breath, holding onto Spike’s ankle, “All we heard was you saying to ‘put the weapon down’ and then no one can get ahold of you or Lou. The line just goes dea—… the line just goes down.”

“Hey, I wasn’t exactly trying to break my headset, okay? And I got out, and Lou got out, and I’m fine and Lou’s fine and _we are fine_.”

Ed rubbed a hand over his face, and tried to not look at the blood on Spike’s vest or the bloody gauze over what he knew was the bullet hole.

“Excuse me,” the nurse said steadfastly, and the sniper moved out of the way to go stand by Greg. The stitches and supplies were balanced in her hands, and she placed them next to her as she drew Spike’s arm close.

“Lou’s getting the bullet removed, so he’ll be under for a bit but it’ll be a quick recovery after that,” the nurse told Spike, then turned her attention to the men surround the hospital bed. “Mr. Scarlatti just needs stitches and to stay hydrated, and some rest.”

Ed let out the breath he was holding, and turned away from the bed for a few seconds before turning back.

“See?” Spike smiled, but looked away and bit his lip as the pain of his wound flared up, “everything’s fine. No need to worry.”

“He’s a very tough young man,” The nurse smiled as her eyes tracked her actions and worked on closing up the wound.

“Yeah,” Ed swallowed, his throat dry, and Sam nodded along with the words as Greg held onto Spike’s shoulder. “He is.”


End file.
